Setting the Lay of Nebraska Alight
by ayashina
Summary: Series of Dean/Sam one shots. Various ratings, lengths, moods, and universes.
1. The World's Behind You

Sam and Dean Winchester have been raised as soldiers, sleeping with one eye open, fists curled around knife hilts under their pillows and with shoes next to their beds, ready to run. But the early hours of the morning run on a different clock for Sam. Monsters are still skirting his consciousness, but that doesn't mean he can't appreciate what little sunlight he gets to enjoy, even if it is mixed with the nasty taste of fear and god-knows-what coating the inside of his mouth.

But it's not the sunlight that pushes away the fear and demons- it's Dean. It's always been Dean. And if Dean happens to look good in sunlight, Sam considers it just another positive thing about sunlight, apart from the whole 'keeping-unholy-things-at-bay-at-least-temporarily' thing.

For Sam, the best part about 'sunlight-gently-highlighting-the-planes-of-his-bare-chest-Dean' is that he generally goes hand in hand with 'early-morning-Dean', which is generally synonymous with lazy sex, free from the constraints of higher thought. And with savages brutes and all-nighters lurking just around the corner, far be it from Sam to turn down the opportunity.

Sam halts his reverie and turns his full attention to Dean, lying with his face shoved unceremoniously into the crook of Sam's elbow and his arm hooked over Sam's waist. Sam lets his eyes rest on the dimples above the curve of Dean's ass, and his dick gives an interested twitch. Sam feels him scrunch up his face as he wakes, rolling his shoulders back as they let out a formidable crack. Sam lets out an appreciative noise as the muscles on Dean's back shift under his skin, the light peeking out from behind the shutters making them look nothing short of _interesting._

Dean lifts his head with the sort of sluggish lethargy Sam can always find comfort in, as long as the clock reads 'too damn early', as opposed to 'head injury in the midsts of a crisis'. He glances at Sam and quirks his lips, letting his chin come to rest on Sam's chest.

"You makin' eyes at me, Sammy?"

Sam just smiles, partially because he wants to preserve how Dean looks, green eyes hazy with sleep and _freckles, _but also because his mouth feels like a fucking sewer. Dean snorts.

"Oh _god, _you are such a sappy-" Dean cuts himself off with a yawn, before draping himself further over Sam's chest. "-_yeti? _Fuck, you are just the…" He trails off, letting his hands wander over the expanse of Sam's chest, looking at his brother with a kind of sleepy awe. "_Colossal."_

Sam just smirks, letting Dean dip his hands lower down his body as he crawls onto Sam's lap. Dean's hands travel south of Sam's waist and he grins, leaning in conspiratorially for a kiss.

"Morning to you too, Dean."

Dean gives Sam's cock a squeeze, planting a wet kiss to Sam's mouth as Sam stifles a gasp.

"_Fuck, Dean!" _Sam lets out a whine. "You taste pretty fuckin' nasty right- mmf!"

Sam feels Dean's mouth curve into the kiss as he bullies Sam against the headboard of the bed.

"Dude, _shut up. _You ain't exactly tasting of roses yourself, you know."

The kiss is messy and sticky and gross and _perfect, _and Sam rests his hands on Dean's hips, palming down his boxers gently. Dean obliges, shifting around in Sam's lap as the pair struggle to remove the offending layer without breaking contact. Dean licks a hot stripe up the side of Sam's neck, and Sam lets his head fall back into the thin, lumpy motel pillow, the pads of his fingers dig into the swell of Dean's hips. Sam can feel Dean's legs shaking. He rests his hands against Dean's thighs, kneading his palms into the muscle.

Dean pushes deeper into Sam's mouth, making wet noises that go straight to Sam's dick. Dean's hands are warm and callused, Sam knows them better than his own, and they're just touching and stroking and fucking _caressing, _oh-so-slowly, and Sam's still punch-drunk enough from sleep not to want it any other way.

It's just the two of them, and Sam can't imagine a time when it wasn't. They're lying too tangled and too tired to tell who's who, joined at mouths and hips and chests and _everything. _Dean's bringing him off slowly, the rough base of his palm hardly matching his leisurely pace. Sam tugs insistently at Dean's lower lip, worrying it between his teeth.

"_Please."_

Sam's never been above begging, not with Dean, and Dean always gives him want he wants, in the end.

So there they are, spread out on a set of god-awful printed polyester sheets, with the sun rising faraway behind the blinds. Sam's on his back, Dean's hands moving at an adagio pace on his cock. With the occasional sharper, _harder_ stroke, Sam digs his nails into Dean's hips, pressing his knee into Dean's crotch. And Dean ruts against it helplessly, getting off without breaking eye contact. It takes _for-fucking-ever, _but it feels _so fucking good, _and when it's over, Sam is sticky and gross and _sated, _and it's fucking perfect.

"I need to _shower._" Sam groans, but makes no effort to disentangle himself from Dean's legs.

Dean snorts, running a gummy hand though Sam's hair. "The fuck you do. You're staying right here, Sammy."

Sam wraps his arms around Dean's torso, mashing his face into his chest. "Mhm, _Dean, _that's _gross._"

Sam's eyes are screwed up shut, and he's perfectly willing to pretend the sun isn't yet high in the sky.

**A/N: **haha I can't write porn to save my life. Pbbt.


	2. Talk Me Through It

For Sam, It's still as intoxicating as it's always been, and _it's _not even happening, on a technical level.

Sam's lying on his back, Dean sitting across from him on the bed. Sam drinks up the rise and fall of Dean's chest, the quirk of his lips against the dull motel backdrop.

"Touch yourself."

It's Dean's _voice _that does it, always has. Deep and gritty from years on the road, bordering on something dire. It's always had Sam's heels rocking on the edge. And Dean's _talking him through it._

Sam can feel Dean's smirk. "Don't forget to breathe, Sammy."

Sam tugs his jeans down to his thighs and unceremoniously shoves a hand down his boxers. Sam likes to think that this is the sort of thing that a person such as himself would refuse to be subjected to, but then there's Dean. Dean, talking Sam through it, just with his voice.

Dean could make him. He could do it- Jesus Christ, he could do it, if Dean would just _keep talking._

"Look at me, and touch yourself."

Obedience, Winchester edition, is like watching a car crash in slow motion.

A car crash that will inevitably benefit both parties involved, in this case.

Sam's eyes flicker over to Dean's, shakily holding their gaze. Sam's the type that blushes up his ears and neck, and he just _knows _Dean gets a filthy kick out of it. Dean, with his fucking freckles and stupid, _stupid _voice. Sam likes to think turned on and angry is not the way he goes through life. Dean would love to beg to differ.

Sam's stare is sharp on Dean's face, plucking up details defiantly, a jut to his jaw and a curl to the fist around his cock.

"Only if you keep talking."

Dean's laugh rumbles low in his throat, and Sam arches his back, whines a little.

"Of course, _Sammy._"

It's a push, just a little one, and Sam can feel it in the way his toes are gripping the bed sheets. Dean leans over, halting just, _just _too far to be convenient to touch. Sam can practically imagine the brush of his leather jacket against his naked thighs, but he can't _feel _it, not _really, _because it's about the voice, isn't it? Sam quickens his hand, keeping his eyes fixed on Dean's as he lets little noises be pulled from his throat at an embarrassing pitch.

Dean's mouth twists into a smirk, pushing closer and closer but never _touching._

"I think I like you just like _this. _Blushin' and naked, thinkin' about _me. _About _all _the things I could do to you, right _now._"

Dean likes to enunciate. Not even important words, just _words, _and they do _things _to Sam no one else can, and it's all kinds of embarrassing, but Sam's willing to put up with it, if only for Dean.

"And how you just… _touch yourself? _You're fuckin' shameless, when it comes to me. Just for me."

Dean's voice is a purr. It's all kinds of sticky sweet with sharp edges and it's _completely ruining _Sam's life.

Fuck Dean and and his fucking voice.

"I can just _talk. _That's all I need to get you hot all over, and you won't even _deny _it, because we both know it, don't we? All I need to do is _talk._"

Sam groans. It's exasperated and horny and _impatient, _and Dean just grins, because he has reason to. Fucking _fuck._

Sam has a hand wrapped in the sheets beside his head, his heels braced against the end board of the bed. His cheeks are on fire, he's seeing spots, and he'd really, _really _just like to get a decent orgasm.

Dean's breath stutters a bit.

"_Christ, _Sammy, do you even _know _how you look right now? _Fuck, _you just…" Dean trails off, and Sam can feel heat beginning to coil under his stomach.

Dean's leaning over him, now, but he's still _just _shy of touching him. Sam's staring up at his face, and can't Dean's eyes just _pick a colour, _and Dean leans in close to whisper.

"_Come for me."_

This is the sort of sex Sam would assume is just an abstract concept, because a voice is just sound, ideas and impressions conveyed by vibrations making their way to people's ears, and Dean, Dean can bring Sam off with just that.

It _could _have been a question, but not where Sam's body is concerned. Not when Sam's hand is as relentless as the blood roaring in his ears, and Dean's eyes and teeth are sharp, and everything else is just a sex-addled haze.

Sam lets his grip on the sheets relax, not meeting Dean's eyes as he hurriedly pulls his hand from his boxers and makes to stand up. Dean's still caging his body against the mattress, smiling wide and severe. He hooks his index finger in the collar of Sam's shirt, kissing him still. Sam's face is still burning, but his mouth is open under the hot drag of Dean's tongue against his. Dean's hand is braced against Sam's hip, stroking the taught skin and melting Sam into place. _Holy shit. _Dean is incredible with sound and touch and _everything, _and Sam is never, _never _going to say that out loud because it's Dean, and Dean totally knows it already.

Dean lets up for air, and Sam chases his mouth. Dean chuckles.

"_Dean-_"

"You're a fuckin' _tease_, Sammy_. _We are _absolutely _tryin' that again."

Sam lets his head hit the pillow as Dean lowers himself, leather jacket and all, on to Sam's chest. Sam's still red in the face, because _fuck, _Dean is _never _gonna let him forget that he has _this _over him, and Sam is going to find out what makes Dean really, _really _tick, but Dean is warm against him, and Sam would rather sleep, just now.


End file.
